


Only with you do I not care

by Etheostoma



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxiety, Crowley is a walking anxiety attack, First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25692412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etheostoma/pseuds/Etheostoma
Summary: It had been a week since that day after the end of the world. Aziraphale had taken his leave, had said he would return in the morning——and instead it had been seven days and Crowley was alone.Or, Aziraphale loses track of time, and Crowley finally loses control.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 179





	Only with you do I not care

**Author's Note:**

> This started when I had a really bad bout of anxiety hit me one day, so I jotted some stuff down to help process. Came back to it the other day and poked at it a bit, and came out with this. 
> 
> Not much plot, but a little emotional field trip for our boys. 
> 
> It's nothing fancy, but comments and kudos are always love.

Crowley told himself a lot of lies. One might argue that, if one were _aware_ of the falsehood then it couldn't precisely constitute a lie, but he barreled on with it anyway, feeding himself a steady litany of untruths in order to stay sane as reality gradually unraveled around him.

The lies started small, little untruths and exaggerations that somehow graduated into performing not-quite miracles and pawning them off as an exchange of favors for the sake of common interest. He’d overlook a blessing here, a benediction there, and tell himself repeatedly that yes, he was evil, he was a demon--wasn’t he?

It rather snowballed from there.

Year after year, century after century, Crowley’s lies escalated to the “bigger picture” sort, the ones he began to tell himself day in and day out so that he could survive.

_I don’t care._

After the infamous “I’m fine”, which was his other standard go-to, that particular phrase was Crowley’s default state of being, uttered time and time again. Whether mumbled quietly into his wine glass, spat with fervor toward the uncaring sky, or muttered with fierce, unadulterated fury (vicious, violent, vehement to the umpteenth degree), the fact remained that Crowley completely, utterly, and without a doubt most certainly _did_ care. Nevertheless, he would choke out those words as his eyes blazed behind their mirrored lenses, mouth twisted in a ferocious grimace even as his hand twisted to snap, to right some wrong in the world—or rather, to make wrong a right, if his superiors were watching.

Crowley always was at his worst when he was by himself, when he had nothing but time to sit—alone—and ruminate on his thoughts and fears.

Self-loathing and paranoia were his constant companions—he could almost flip a switch and turn off his sensitivity to them at will, by now—but when he allowed little mustard-seeds of emotions like _hope_ and _affection_ to bleed through and penetrate his defenses it all went to Hell in a hand-basket.

Here, now, alone with his inner demons—outer demon notwithstanding—he felt his walls crumbling, his moat filling in with rubble and his tender, raw core exposed to all of the _feelings_ he tried so hard to keep at bay. He ached with the pain of it all, all the love he was so conditioned to keeping bottled and the anxiety he strove to keep at bay, fear and doubt and depression worming their way out of their cages to eat away at him until he was left a bloody, writhing pulp.

Whining, he curled up on himself, tucking his knees into his chest and burrowing his head into the cushions on the back of the couch to hide from the false cheer spread by the sunshine streaming through the window.

It had been a week since that day after the end of the world. Aziraphale had taken his leave, had said he would return in the morning—

—and instead it had been seven _days_ and Crowley was _alone._

He shook with anxious energy, hands flexing where he had them clenched at his chest, long lashes fluttering at his cheeks as he squeezed his eyes shut in his desperation to force out the world from his internal reality.

Aziraphale had left him—he knew it would only be a matter of time. Aziraphale didn’t _care—_ hell, _he_ didn’t care for himself, so how could he expect another to do so? Aziraphale had moved on, was not coming back, he was _alone._

Crowley moaned, uncaring at how pathetic he must appear to the casual observer, and tugged at the short stands of his hair, his breaths quickening and becoming shallow, treacherous heart pounding cruel-quick in his chest. His senses narrowed down to a single pin-prick of awareness, honed on the in-out pattern of his rapid breaths and all other sensory cues turning to static.

Satan himself could rise from the floor of his apartment in all his fiery wrath and Crowley would be none the wiser.

He whined, high and pained, and—

—nearly shot through the ceiling as a warm hand tentatively descended on his shoulder.

“Crowley?” More than a touch of concern colored Aziraphale’s soft inquiry, and a second hand came down to grasp Crowley’s other forearm and turn him gently so that he was reclined more traditionally against the couch cushions. “My dear, whatever is the matter?”

Blinking, golden eyes gone wide with shock, Crowley shook his head and slithered about into a seated position, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his palms. “‘M fine,” he mumbled out of habit, willing it into truth has he had for so many years prior. “It’s nothing.”

There was a sigh from somewhere in front of him, and then Aziraphale’s soft hands were prying his own from his face, and the angel’s white-gold hair was tickling his forehead and Aziraphale was peering concernedly into Crowley’s eyes with that piercing blue stare he had mastered several millennia ago. “Crowley, you are _not_ fine,” the angel said severely, chasing the furrows of the demon’s forehead with the pads of his thumbs. “Even Ray Charles could see that.”

That startled a bark of laughter from Crowley. “Pop culture reference, angel?” he asked, lips quirking. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Aziraphale shook off the tease, seeing it for the evasive maneuver that it was. “Crowley, what is wrong?” he asked again, squeezing the lean hands he held captive.

“Stupid,” Crowley mutters, shuttering those beautiful golden eyes and turning his head away. “I was just being stupid.”

“Is stupid synonymous with anxiety attack?” Aziraphale asked bluntly, eyes narrowed and an absolutely, unsettlingly _knowing_ look fixed upon his face. “Because that is what it looked like to me, my dear, and you should never have to bear such a thing alone—not anymore.” Fabric crinkled as he stood and shrugged out of his overcoat and hung it over the back of the couch, depositing himself on the gauche leather sofa next to Crowley in naught but his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. “Now, care to tell me what brought that on?”

Though his tone was stern, his eyes were kind—blindingly, _burningly_ kind—and Crowley quailed under the compassion locked within that bright gaze. He mumbled something under his breath, squirming in his seat and looking everywhere but Aziraphale.

“I’m sorry?”

Heart thumping—stupid, _stupid,_ he had better control than to just fall apart with one _week_ without the angel nearby—Crowley swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I said, you didn’t come back,” he croaked, passing a hand through his hair in a traditionally-agitated gesture. “You said you’d be back in the morning, and then it was morning and you weren’t, and then it was six _more_ mornings, and—“ He stopped, looking down shamefacedly at his knees. “I’m an idiot,” he concluded, “I know you hadn’t been back to the shop, I know how you get with your books, I know I’m just—“

“Oh _Crowley,”_ Aziraphale exclaimed, horrified. His face twisted with guilt, mouth downturned and eyes heavy with sorrowful shadows. “I—if you can believe it, I actually fell _asleep.”_ This was said with a twist of distaste, for Aziraphale had long since felt the world was full of too many books and too many miracles to perform to waste time unconscious. He wrung his hands, bumping his shoulder against Crowley’s in silent companionship. “Dearest, I’m ever so sorry, I didn’t wake up until a few moments before I got here and then I came over straight away.”

Crowley had frozen at the word “dearest”, and barely even heard the rest of Aziraphale’s apology.

Lips pursed and eyebrows rocketing toward his hairline, Aziraphale leaned over toward the silent demon. “Crowley?” He waved one hand in front of Crowley’s face.

“You’ve never called me ‘dearest’ before,” Crowley confessed softly, still looking dumbstruck.

Aziraphale’s calm facade cracked, and Crowley’s world shifted as he was scooped up and settled on Aziraphale’s lap, the angel’s arms wrapped around his torso and his face pressed into the crook of Crowley’s neck.

Selfish, Aziraphale thought remorsefully, he had been so _selfish_ for so very long, selfish and scared and it was poor, beloved Crowley who had taken the fall.

“Oh,” he murmurs, lips a soft-sad tickle against Crowley’s neck. “Oh.”

Butterflies erupted in Crowley’s stomach at the sudden contact, his throat seizing in shock and back stiffening with tension. He was in Aziraphale’s arms, he felt secure, protected, _cherished,_ but—he’d had dreams like this before, and he always _always_ woke up alone.

“I’m here now, I promise,” Aziraphale soothed, hyper-aware of Crowley’s treacherous subconscious and unhappily all-too-familiar with the negative diatribe coursing through the demon’s mind. He slid his broad palms up and down the demon’s back in a steady rhythm. “I’m here, and I’m not going _anywhere_ , and I’m so terribly sorry that it’s taken me this long to be able to promise you that.”

A strangled whimper broke free from Crowley, and he blinked ferociously, trying and failing to hide his emotional turmoil. “’s not your fault,” he sniffed, pulling his head back to peer down at Aziraphale. “Opposite sides and all that, Below and Above would have roasted us respectively before we could get past that sentence alone.” He sniffed, drawing one forearm across his nose, and let his head flop against Aziraphale’s chest. “Didn’t mean to lose it like that,” he apologized weakly, uncertain as to which instance he was referring but knowing he’d apologize for anything if it meant he could remain tucked into Aziraphale’s arms.

Leather crinkled as Aziraphale settled more solidly against the couch, holding Crowley tightly. “Never apologize for that, my dear, everyone has their own way of processing.” He cradled Crowley’s face in his palms, bringing their foreheads together. “And you’ve had so much more to process than all the rest of us, and a lot of it my fault.”

Tears gathered in the corners of those beautiful blue eyes, and Crowley could not bear it. “No, Angel, no,” he insisted, thumbs catching the moisture before it could fall. “None of it is your fault, you are the best thing that has happened to, that _will_ ever happen to me.” He blinked his golden eyes, pupils contracting in the bright morning light. A war played out visibly across his face, desire struggling with hesitation and residual anxiety. “No matter _what_ happens from here on out.”

Aziraphale could _feel_ the nervous tension humming through Crowley’s veins. He breathed in and out, inhale-exhale, a steady exchange of air that formed a soothing rhythm against Crowley’s humming nerves. Must be steady, must be certain, mustn’t let Crowley sense any agitation. No doubt, nothing to indicate any hesitation on his own part—and this time, there truly _was_ nothing. Aziraphale _had_ no doubts, no reason to hide anymore.

He only hated that it was _Crowley_ who had paid the price for his weakness, _Crowley_ who had loved blindly for so long—and then knowingly for so very long after that.

“You love me,” Aziraphale stated, wonderingly, a warm ball of delight forming in his chest and furling outward. He had known it, of course, but only distantly, never directly acknowledged—it was not just Crowley who had mastered the art of denial.

Crowley blanched and then sagged, defeated, fluttering one hand distractedly in the air. “Always have done, Angel. Thought you might’ve caught on by now”

Aziraphale shook his head, flaxen hair bobbing back and forth. He had no words, nothing he could offer to express to Crowley just how so very much he cared, how very much he loved him. Words would not suffice, language could not come _close_ to conveying everything he needed to tell the demon, so—

—he showed him.

Ducking forward, Aziraphale pressed his lips to Crowley’s, hands lifting to settle at the base of his neck, thumbs sweeping across his prominent collarbones. He poured everything he couldn’t say into that kiss, eyes fluttering closed as he channeled his hope and regret and commitment and _love_ into that one singular gesture.

At the first brush of their mouths, Crowley startled like a horse, head jerking backward before Aziraphale’s warm hands at his neck gentled him, brought him back forward into their embrace. He breathed in sharply, lips parting slightly, and then gasped outright at Aziraphale’s tongue darted out to tease at the gap. Giving into temptation, he buried his hands the angel’s fair hair, mouth moving furiously against Aziraphale’s, awash in the waves of affection and assurance that Aziraphale was projecting.

“You—“ Crowley pulled back, gasping slightly, and Aziraphale felt the faintest stirrings of pride at the demon’s swollen lips and the flush that had crept up his cheeks, “You too?” Crowley’s hands flexed in Aziraphale’s hair, fingers catching those white-gold strands and marveling at their downy texture.

Aziraphale stretched, leaning back into the skritch of Crowley’s nails against his scalp, and all but purred with satisfaction. “Me too,” he avowed, locking those brilliant eyes onto Crowley’s. “For a long time, now, and for _forever_ , if you can forgive me for all the years that came before.”

Crowley snorted, tugging lightly at an errant curl near the angel’s ear. “There’s nothing to forgive, Aziraphale,” he declared, a strange mixture of solemnity and joyful disbelief catching in his words. “I love you.” He burst forward and caught Aziraphale in another kiss, sucking gently at his bottom lip before sliding their tongues together, a sweet-slick tangle of muscle that sent his nerves singing.

He drew back, a smile playing at his mouth—a true smile, white teeth flashing and lips parted, eyes golden with delight. “I _love_ you, Angel,” he repeated, and then laughed delightedly, falling forward to press his face against Aziraphale’s neck. “I love you, and you love me, and we don’t have to _hide—“_

Chuckling, Aziraphale tucked his chin atop Crowley’s flaming head, fingers playing through the fine strands of hair at the base of his head. “I do love you, my dear,” he agreed softly, “so very much.” He pressed a kiss to Crowley’s brow, a silent apology that the demon could not refuse, and held him close, relishing the contact and making note of all the places they touched: the comfortable weight of Crowley’s thighs settled across his lap, the demon’s bare feet where they were tucked between his hip and the couch, the line of his torso against Aziraphale’s, his arms curled around Aziraphale’s shoulders..

He sighed contentedly and smoothed another kiss across Crowley’s brow. “We have all the time in the world, my dear,” he murmured, following an imaginary line from Crowley’s temple to his chin with his lips. “What do you propose we do now?”

Blinking up at his angel, Crowley offered an awkward shrug with what little shoulder he had free from where he remained plastered around Aziraphale’s torso. “You know what, Angel,” he replied, that brilliant, joyful grin splitting his face once more, “as long as we do it together, _I don’t care.”_


End file.
